Chapter 7 Kade
Kade
The headlights are a blur in my face, making me squint as I drive. I have no idea where I’m going. I just know I can’t be walled in tonight, not after spending more than twenty-four hours sitting around waiting for the FBI to decide what to do with me.
That was a special kind of torture that makes my guts churn, even now, after I went home and collapsed in bed and slept for another twelve like the dead.
Dead, like Roman Bishop. Dear ole Dad.
Anxiety rises in me, making my heartbeat pick up speed and my palms go slick against the wheel. All it takes is thinking his name, and I spiral all over.
At least they released me. I couldn’t believe it when they said I was free to leave.
I mean, they saw the dining room, right?
They saw Roman dead on the floor, and it’s not like I tried to lie about what happened.
It never occurred to me that I might make up a story about a fight for the gun or anything like that until way after they brought me in.
I was ready to face the aftermath. I’ve gotten away with murder before, fuck knows.
This time, it wasn’t because Dad was involved in covering it up.
“From what you’ve told us, it was a matter of defense.
” It took a while, but I finally got around to giving them details.
It turns out my brothers did, too, and I guess everyone agrees that I did what had to be done to save more lives than the one I ended.
“Your father had too much to drink. He struck Mrs. Bishop and threatened to fire on your sister-in-law. You did what anyone would do to protect their family.”
I did. Not that any of us told the whole story. Not even close.
My jaw tightens, and I press my foot harder on the gas pedal until the world blurs.
He deserved it, the son of a bitch. All three shots.
For what happened that night and for so much more.
Part of me wishes it wasn’t over so quickly.
Yet I feel like I’m running away from the devil as I race through the night.
Because no matter the truth, nothing feels right.
I killed my father.
My own fucking father.
I turn into the parking lot of The Rusty Nail.
I guess I was always headed here. Instinct guides my truck while my brain spirals.
I need a drink. No. I need to drown myself in alcohol.
Death clings to every piece of me, and I can’t shake free.
So I’ll have to kill it, bury it, make the noise inside my head disappear.
I step out of the truck into the cold.
As I head to the door, someone’s on their way out, and music, shouting, and laughter blast from behind them.
It’s jarring, but I force myself to get used to it as I walk across the lot and grab the doorknob.
This is better than sitting at home feeling like I might crawl out of my skin.
It isn’t the overlapping voices I hear once I’m inside.
The music fades to a dull roar in the back of my head while I weave through clusters of people on my way to an empty barstool.
It’s him. His voice. It rings in my head so loud, my body vibrates.
“You’re the worst of them all.”
“You spend your whole life trying to be worthy. Trying to prove yourself. Trying to earn what your brothers got by birth. And no matter how hard you try, it’ll never happen.”
Rick notices me once I’ve claimed my stool, then raises an eyebrow to silently ask whether I want the usual. I might come in here too much if we can communicate without words. Who cares? I’m not in the mood to chat.
“At the end of the day, you’re not a real Bishop. Your mother is Emma Porter.”
Closing my eyes doesn’t help smother his voice.
The man is dead, cold, but he’s still alive in my head.
I snatch the glass of whiskey as soon as it touches the bar and down it all, then slide it toward Rick before he has the chance to get distracted.
His lips draw together. He’s no doubt wondering what happened to make me this desperate to get blackout drunk.
Thankfully, that won’t stop him from pouring another. We’ve gone through this dance before.
“...taking their heir and making him my weapon.”
Bile rises in my throat when I think about what he said.
What he did. Systematically, day by day.
How he raised me to hate my own blood. To look at the Porters as enemies.
It was deliberate. For my entire life, he treated me like some kind of experiment, testing whether nature or nurture would win out.
Testing how completely he could twist me up?
And how much he could punish my birth mother who had to witness it all.
“I told her if she ever tried to see you, I’d kill you myself.”
Another drink shows up right on time, and I down it the same way I did the first. It’s still not enough. It’ll never be enough. I signal for more while my blood boils and my heart pounds in time with the music hammering in my ears.
He called me a fucking dog.
Told me I wasn’t really his son. That I was weak because I came from Emma. In just a few minutes, he stripped away the one thing I thought was mine. The belief that I belonged, that he would eventually see I was worthy of being treated like more than a useless fuckup.
Something inside me snapped then.
I could hear it in my head. I still hear it now.
It lingers over the drunken laughter, the shouts for more beer and whiskey, the blaring music rattling the stool.
Everyone in life has a breaking point. I guess I didn’t know it could be literal.
I didn’t expect to be pushed so far that the strain would take whatever was still holding me together and snap it like a piece of dried, dead wood.
When I finally snapped, it provided the one thing I never had.
Something I didn’t even know I was missing until it showed up, rushing in and filling all the cracks inside my skull.
It quieted the noise, silenced the questions, and the constant push and pull I fought against. All of that ceased to exist, and a sort of icy peace settled over me.
Clarity formed in my mind. And for the first time in my life, everything was crystal clear.
I knew what I needed to do. That no matter what happened, he would never see me the way I wanted him to.
Yeah, I had killed my father to protect my family, my brothers, and Saint, but more than anything, I killed him because if I didn’t, there would never be peace for any of us.
Looking back, I wonder why I ever wanted to be like him.
I guess the need for his approval outweighed everything else.
I raise the glass of whiskey to my lips.
I have a hell of a thirst, and I doubt what’s left in the bottle behind the bar will be enough for me.
To bury the truth, to satisfy these new demons.
In the end, my father didn’t believe I’d pull the trigger.
He stood there, so sure of himself, practically daring me to shoot him.
I smile to myself. For once, I proved him wrong. I get a small tingle of satisfaction, knowing that his last thoughts were probably filled with shock, with horror that his fuckup bastard son had ended him.
My hand trembles as I set the empty glass on the bar, then pound my fist against its scarred surface to signal Rick. “Let’s go again.” I slide the glass his way. “Keep them coming until I hit the floor.”
“You know I never stand between a man and the money he’s willing to part with.”
Even half blind as I am right now, I see his smirk. I’ve seen it before, too. It’s the look he gives customers who have obviously had too much to drink, but he’s not willing to cut off yet.
“Bishop money is as green as anybody else’s.” I tap the glass, pushing it closer to him. “Keep pouring.”
“Suit yourself. But you’re gonna regret it in the mornin’.”
I already have so many regrets with or without the whiskey. You don’t wake a few days after you murder your father and feel great. At least, that’s what I’m guessing. This is new territory for me. If only the people in this bar knew the truth.
All of ’em sitting around, having a normal night. Making bets on dumb shit like who can chug a beer faster or hit a bull’s-eye on the dartboard. Men and women making eyes at each other from across the room because nobody wants to go home alone.
If they did, they might have to face how pathetic their lives are, and then what? Where do you go from there?
Where do I go from here? Murder is a pretty hefty charge. I should’ve gone to jail. That’s where I should be now, in a cell with the other degenerates. It’s what I deserve, but I’m a Bishop—at least, that’s what it says on my driver’s license.
And being a Bishop gives you certain privileges. If my last name was Jones or Smith, I’d be rotting in a cell, waiting to talk to a lawyer, shoulder to shoulder with other losers like me.
Not only was I spared the kind of punishment anybody else would’ve received, but news of the great Roman Bishop being dead hasn’t even hit the public yet.
None of these people know that the man who’s held Black Hollow Creek in his fist all these years is dead.
I don’t even want to know how much Sawyer wound up paying to keep the paramedics’ mouths shut after what they saw.
My thoughts twist back to Roman.
What had he called me? Emma Porter’s mistake.
He decided before I was ever born that I would never be anything more than a tool.
Something he could use to punish my birth mother for having the balls to defy him.
I wonder, dimly, somewhere in my booze-soaked brain, what opened her eyes.
What forced her to make a move like that?
“Another one.” I slam the glass on the bar and wipe the back of my other hand across my mouth.
I’m turning into the kind of drunk I can’t stand, not that I give a shit.
Nor do I think anyone else in this establishment cares.
If they did, I’d tell them to go straight to hell and say hi to Roman for me once they get there.
“Can ya not see me standing here, or do you just not give a fuck?”
I barely hear the voice over my shoulder through the memories battling the whiskey.
It takes getting shoved from behind to realize this asshole is talking to me.
“What the hell?” I snap and turn to him.
“You heard me.” He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and packed with muscle.
“You Bishops think you can take up everybody’s time, don’t you?
” His bald head shines in the neon lights hanging behind the bar, and his narrowed eyes gleam with hate.
“I’m standing here trying to get service, but all that matters is you. ”
Unfortunately, this piece of shit picked the wrong guy on the wrong fucking night.
Slowly, I rise from the stool. I’m still steady enough to split this asshole’s face open, and I’m wound tight enough to make a stupid choice.
“Probably because there’s a sign on the wall that says ‘No Douchebags Served’ but I guess that only works if you know how to read. ”
His head snaps back. “What the fuck did you say?”
I point to his right. “Up there.”
Go figure, he turns toward where I’m pointing like the dumbass he is. I use the distraction to my advantage, pulling my arm back and slamming my fist into his jaw, making him stumble a few steps. Pain ripples across my knuckles, but I welcome it.
“Hey! None of that shit in here!” Rick barks over the rumbling of excited bar patrons. The whistles and hollers are so loud I can barely hear him.
“Send the damages to Sawyer,” I shout back, then focus my sole attention on the fuckface in front of me. This is exactly what I needed tonight. Someone to hurt. Someone to make feel the same way I’m feeling.
My heart lurches in my chest when he reaches into his back pocket and palms a switchblade. “That was a mistake, Bishop,” he snarls, taking a few jabs in my direction.
“Too much of a pussy to use your fists? Fine by me.” Grabbing the nearest beer bottle, I smash it against the edge of a high top and hold out the jagged remains. “Let’s go.”
“Fuck! I told ya to stop!” Rick bellows. “That’s it. I’m calling the cops.”
Good. That’s what I deserve.
Rick’s voice is a distraction I don’t need and almost causes me to get sliced by the switchblade. This idiot might be clumsy, but a cut is a cut, and I don’t want stitches.
He swipes out in a wide arc, and I know before I even move he’s too clumsy with his booze. I shift to the side and barely protect myself with the bottle. It’s nowhere near enough to quiet the voices inside me.
By the time he brings himself to a stop, his free hand is covering his cheek, where blood pours through his fingers thanks to the way the glass sliced him from his chin to his ear. He’s stunned, like he can’t understand what happened.
“Come on, big guy,” I urge, waving him on. “Let’s see what you can do with that thing. Teach me a lesson.”
I don’t think he hears me.
“Piece of shit!” he screams, dropping the switchblade to the floor.
The people around us scramble for napkins to press against his wound while I watch, my lips pulled tight into a smile, my chest heaving. I feel more alive than I have in days, though I’m disappointed, too. That didn’t last nearly long enough. I should’ve kept playing with him.
My smile grows when red and blue lights flash through the windows.
I guess I know where I’m sleeping tonight.
Finally. It’s what I deserve.